The Next Best Thing
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: John helps Sherlock do something normal following the crash in "The Space Around Me".  John/Sherlock established relationship & slash.
1. I Want To Go Home

**A/N:** This is set just following "The Space Around Me". It was supposed to be a one-shot, but it got away from me without me intending it to, but that means you all get more Sherlock & John, so I'd better not hear any complaining ;) As always: I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!

* * *

"I want to go home."

"Yes, I know. You saying it every five minutes isn't going to make it happen any faster."

"Presumably it will, since every five minutes must, by definition, be five minutes closer to going home."

John rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the grin on his face or the light in his brown eyes, nor did Sherlock want him to. He drank it in voraciously, like a man lost a the desert being suddenly handed a cool canteen of water. He registered every flicker of John's eyelashes, every twitch of his lips, every tiny shift in small facial muscles that altered his expression, letting it flow from amused to lovingly tolerant to indulgent.

Sherlock reached out and touched John's face, from which John no longer recoiled, even though it had only ever been a rejection of the fact that Sherlock had done this when he could not see. Now, John closed his own eyes, expression transforming from that amused indulgence to relaxation, tinted with desire around the edges, in the curve of his lips. Sherlock ran his thumb over John's lips and John opened his eyes, which were now somewhat darker, and brighter.

"You trying to seduce me from a hospital bed is a: not going to work, and b: won't change the fact that I can't discharge you. And you're not leaving AMA, either, Sherlock."

"You're a doctor," Sherlock pointed out. "You could advise that they release me."

"I'm also your husband and am therefore not allowed to be your doctor at all."

Sherlock made a face, but kept his hand on John's cheek.

"But you could take care of me just as easily at home as here," he pointed out.

"I'm a doctor, not a nurse," John sniffed. "Besides, have you given any thought as to how you're going to get up the stairs to our flat?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Perhaps you can carry me," he commented. "You were a soldier – you should be trained in this."

"And you're half a bloody foot taller than me _and_ you're still injured. Not until you're better on those crutches, which should give you some incentive to work harder when they take you for physio."

"I'm very committed to my physiotherapy sessions," Sherlock replied with feigned coolness.

"Only if I'm there to watch," John sighed.

"Incentive," Sherlock replied. "You were the one just commenting on that. If you could come to all of the sessions, I could leave sooner."

John leaned forward, resting one arm on the bed, tangling his hand with Sherlock's.

"You're not pinning this one me."

"Oh, fine," Sherlock huffed. "I bow to your obvious expertise and stubbornness."

"Sorry, _I'm_ the stubborn one? You do remember who and where you are, right? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Quit being insufferable," he said.

"Again, are we still talking about me?"

"If you won't free me from this tedious hospital room and these tedious doctors and these tedious nurses, you could at least convince them to let me have a decent shower. Is that within your power as a doctor-who-is-family and as my husband? I feel repulsive."

"You don't look repulsive, and they've been keeping you clean, Sherlock. You're still half-wrapped in bandages."

"First, I didn't say I looked repulsive, I said I feel repulsive. And second, I'm not half-wrapped in bandages, it's at best one third, perhaps more like one quarter. And you're a doctor, it's not as though you cannot remove or replace bandages when necessary. And I'm sure there's some implement to cover the cast. And I _know_ they have those shower chairs, because no, I would not be able to stand on crutches and shower."

"And how did you know about the chairs? When was the last time you broke your leg?"

"Never," Sherlock replied. "One of the nurses told me."

"Which one?" John groaned.

"Sandra. Your girlfriend."

"She isn't my girlfriend," John said, grinning, his eyes gleaming brighter, dancing with laughter. "She's my mistress. It's entirely different. Please try to get it straight. Doctors and nurses are required to have torrid, illicit affairs. I'm sure I told you this when we got married."

"I recall no such thing," Sherlock sniffed.

"I'm sure I'd have mentioned it," John contended. "Anyway, she's not being a very good illicit mistress if she's taking your side on things. Did she plant the idea of going home in your head?"

"I'm perfectly capable of forming my own ideas without the help of your illicit nurse mistress," Sherlock replied, trying to keep a smile from his lips and failing. "However, since you are set against me leaving and I _know_ you have influence on my doctors, regardless of what you say, you can at least let me have a decent shower so I can feel like a human being again."

"What's this?" John gasped, leaning forward. "The great Sherlock Holmes, admitting to being a human being?"

"To wanting to feel like one," Sherlock corrected, then shifted his position on the bed, using both hands to push himself up, grimacing slightly. He was stiff, all of the time, unused to such long periods of inactivity, and John was wrong about his dedication to his physiotherapy treatments – he approached them with as much energy as he could muster every single time, because the more he put into it, the sooner he could get out of this damn hospital.

The bland yellow paint in his private room was beginning to annoy him, despite how relieved he was he could see it. It was a good sign, he considered, that he was now getting tired of actually seeing something. Likewise, he was weary of being in pyjamas all of the time, although at least they were his, not the damnable hospital gowns.

Mostly, he wanted to be at home, where they had some privacy, particularly from Mycroft, who insisted on hanging about and sending people to keep an eye on him and John – no matter how practical and necessary that was. And where John could give him a really good shag. Since John was a doctor, Sherlock was confident in his husband's ability to do so without aggravating Sherlock's injuries. It may even require quite a bit of inventiveness on their parts, he didn't know. An experiment to look forward to, certainly.

"I feel disgusting," Sherlock continued. "Surely by now they can let me wash my hair." He paused a moment, then gave John a calculating look.

"Please?"

That worked.

"All right," John agreed with a wicked grin. "I'll go get a nurse."

"No!" Sherlock snapped and John started to laugh. He kept laughing, but held up his hands placatingly, shaking his head.

"All right, all right, all right. But I do need to go and get more gauze. Look, Sandra should be on duty now, since it's after eight, and she'll help us out. I'd rather not be interrupted."

"It's a shower, John, not a shag. And the bathroom door does have a lock."

John pushed himself to his feet and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.

"I _meant_ I'd rather not have to drag you out of the shower so she can do a routine vitals check. Showering with a leg injury is not easy, believe me, you move a lot more slowly. Plus I need one of those little shower stools. Why don't you grab some sleep until I get back?"

"So you have more time with your girlfriend?" Sherlock asked. "I think not. And I'm tired of sleeping."

"Have it your way then," John said, leaning down for a kiss.

"Finally, he learns!" Sherlock said, then kissed John back, feeling the doctor's grin against his own lips.

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Try not to get caught up in any international assassination schemes or political coups while I'm out, will you?"

"I'll do my best," Sherlock promised. "At the moment, a shower seems far more appealing."

John kissed him again, and slipped out of the door into the brightly lit hospital corridor.


	2. Next Best Thing

John came back in with Sandra, who really did seem to have taken a shine to him – and vice versa. Sherlock had been able to see that even when he had not actually been able to see.

Sherlock ignored the constable he could see standing beside his door, who checked Sandra's badge on the way in and nodded at John. He ignored the man he could see sitting across the hall, too, in the crisp black suit and the dull black tie who was reading a newspaper – or at least doing a decent job of pretending to do so.

How tedious, Sherlock considered, to earn a job with his brother doing classified government work, and then end up monitoring a man with a broken leg who was confined to a hospital bed.

More tedious to be the man with the broken leg, all things considered. He repressed a sigh, then shifted again, unable to contain the wince as he did so.

And to be the man with the broken ribs, bruises, healing internal injuries, and stitches.

_But not_, he reminded himself, _the man who can't see._

If nothing else, he had that.

And they were letting him shower – if he couldn't go home, this was perhaps the next best thing.

John was carrying a shower stool, a small medical kit, and a trash bag for some reason, and he disappeared into the bathroom with these as Sandra checked Sherlock's vitals, her practiced eyes assessing his monitors, her expression pleased but professional.

"Everything looks good," she told him.

"I could have told you that," Sherlock replied.

"Right, but it's _my_ job to tell _you_. Come on, let's get you up. This is a momentous occasion."

"Yes, a shower, so very extraordinary," Sherlock replied dryly, sitting up with some effort and assistance from the handrails on the bed, which he found tiresome but necessary. Grasping his left leg above the knee let him move it off the bed, using his grip to compensate for the extra weight of the cast.

"Every step is important," Sandra said. Somehow, coming from her, it didn't sound banal the way it should have. It sounded sincere.

Sandra passed him his crutches and unhooked his IV line; he had enough painkillers in his system to last the length of the shower.

He hoped.

Sherlock manoeuvred his wrists into the crutches then eased himself from the bed, balancing much more easily now on his right leg.

"Right, good," Sandra said encouragingly, hands hovering at his back and chest. "If I hear anything about you not listening to John, I'll have the doctors tack an extra week onto your stay here."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock growled.

"Try me," she replied laughing, then ducked her head into the bathroom. "Best of luck, John. Buzz if you need anything."

She slipped back toward the door, drawing the privacy curtain so that they were cut off as much as possible from the hallway, and left, the door clicking firmly shut behind her.

Sherlock hobbled into the bathroom, and it _was_ hobbling – as far as he was concerned, no one could move gracefully on crutches, especially not in small spaces. Practical as they were, they also seemed designed to make anyone using them look like a right twit. At least, he considered, his brother didn't actually have cameras in the room, if only because Mycroft had only had access to his room unoccupied once, and Sherlock had made both John and Lestrade check afterwards.

He'd have to sweep the flat when he got back home, too. He wouldn't put it past Mycroft to have reinstated his surveillance there, as though he had some right to now just because Sherlock had been injured.

"All right, this is going to be a process," John promised when Sherlock sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, shaking himself free of his crutches.

"I'm sure you can manage," he replied. "You must have done so after your own injury."

"In a way, this is better. Try not getting your shoulder wet when showering or bathing," John said. "At least your leg we can wrap up."

"I was rather hoping that _wasn't_ what that trash bag was for. Isn't there anything more dignified?"

"No," John replied with a grin that Sherlock found far too mischievous for the circumstances. "It's really the easiest way. All right, shirt first."

He crouched down in front of Sherlock and started unbuttoning the pyjama top, then hesitated, his expression becoming tense, shuttered. Sherlock reached up – painfully, since elevating his arms still hurt from the mending ribs and the patchwork of bruises that covered his torso – and wrapped his hands over John's.

"What, John?" he asked.

John closed his eyes for a moment.

"Sorry," he managed. "I haven't, um– I haven't actually seen you without all the clothing and bandages off." He paused, drawing in a deep breath, the muscles in his jaw working. "Nor have you, come to think of it."

Ignoring the twinges and protests from his ribs, the stitches, and his bruises, Sherlock cupped John's face in his hands and tilted it up.

"I've seen enough to know what I look like," Sherlock said. "And it will all heal."

John nodded abruptly.

"Yes, well. Of course, you're right."

He hesitated, still tense, now refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes, fingers resting on the buttons but not moving. His eyes were blazing bright and his jaw set, teeth clenched.

John, Sherlock realized, had been looking at him like this the whole time. He had only been able to see himself more recently, and the first day or two had been blurry. It was only within the last twenty-four hours that his vision had returned to the sharp clarity he'd had before the crash.

Looking at himself in the mirror was still somewhat startling, in large part because of the dark circles that completely rimmed his eyes, deep bruises that were the remnants of the swelling in his optical nerves that had temporarily robbed him of his sight. Red and purple marks on his face, marked the smooth, pale skin to which he was accustomed. His reflection was much more vivid than the monochromatic colouring he was used to, with all of the bruises and healing cuts.

It was hard to watch when they changed the bandages on his ribs – for practical reasons, because it was just physically difficult to look straight down at his own torso while someone tried to move around him. But he'd seen the thick bruise that lined his chest from his right shoulder to disappear under the bandages, where he'd hit the seat belt. And he'd glanced at the extent of the damage whenever they'd changed his dressings, insofar as he could.

Logically, he knew he must have looked much worse.

He hadn't seen it, but John had.

Sherlock tried to imagine what it would be like had their situations been reversed, had he been the one maintaining a constant vigil at John's bedside, watching John struggle to recover from these injuries. He could feel his own body mending, slowly, which John couldn't have felt, even if he knew, as a doctor, that it must be happening.

Sherlock found he couldn't fathom their roles reversed. The idea made him feel cold, the shock throwing up the memory of John at the pool, a bomb strapped to his chest, and the realization Sherlock had felt, knowing he was about to lose the most important thing in his life.

He couldn't imagine it being worse, sitting alone in the waiting room, then sitting alone in the ICU for days, as John had, waiting in silence, tracking every heart beat on the monitor, every inhalation and exhalation. Waiting, waiting endlessly, for some small sign, a twitch of the lips, a curl of the fingers, a flicker of the eyelids, that signalled a return.

His mind rebelled at the possibility, and he understood, suddenly, excruciatingly, that this must be what John was feeling: denial, horror, an inability to accept that things were improving because he remained trapped by the fear of what had happened.


	3. Do You Understand

Sherlock kissed him.

John was immobilized for a moment, then kissed back, and something inside of him surged. He grasped Sherlock's face in his hands and deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue in, one hand moving instinctively to fist into Sherlock's hair, pulling him even closer. Sherlock responded, leaning forward, his tongue warring with John's, lips crushed together, trying to erase any particle of space between them. John half-stood from his crouch and pushed Sherlock back, the blood pounding his veins so fast that he could feel the pulse in his throat jumping against Sherlock's right hand, which had dropped down to grip his neck. John nipped Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth, tugging it into his mouth, eliciting an appreciative moan. He titled Sherlock's head back, invading his mouth again, pushing the heel of his hand across Sherlock's cheek, splaying his fingers into Sherlock's hair.

When he heard a slight involuntary sound, not quite a hiss, not quite a moan, he stopped, pulling back quickly but carefully. Sherlock was watching him, breathing hard, grey eyes bright with desire but laced with pain, radiating out to the corners of his eyes, tightening his expression. Realization made John loosen his hold on Sherlock's hair, and move his other hand from his husband's face before tracing the bruise and cut he'd pressed against, this time lightly, with his fingertips. The gash ran across Sherlock's left cheek, marring the high and perfect cheekbone, but was healing well, and John didn't want it to scar.

"Sorry," John whispered, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. His heart was still hammering, and he had no doubt Sherlock could still feel the rapid pulse in John's neck.

It had been too long.

"Now do you understand why I want to go home?" Sherlock murmured against John's lips.

"I thought you were just getting bored," John replied.

Sherlock kissed him again, lightly this time.

"I am not _getting_ bored, I _am_ bored," he replied after a moment. "But I suspect I'd be equally as bored at home, immobile as I am at the moment. The very first thing I want to do when we get home is shag you, good and hard."

John chuckled against Sherlock's lips. He could feel his husband's breath against his skin, and the pain he'd seen in Sherlock's eyes receded to the normal levels of discomfort he'd been experiencing, which improved on a daily basis. He was making a remarkable recovery, John thought, given the circumstances.

And John didn't want to set that back, as desirable as sex seemed at the moment. A hospital bathroom was probably not the best option, given Sherlock's condition. Their own bed seemed far more preferable. He doubted they could do much, but anything would be an improvement.

"I will definitely see what I can do," he replied.

"I knew you'd see reason, given the right incentive," Sherlock murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "Now, may I please have that shower?"

John grinned and gave him a quick peck, then another before pulling away to crouch down again. He unbuttoned Sherlock's pyjama top and slid it carefully from his shoulders, one arm at a time, so as not to jar or over-stretch the muscles around Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock hissed involuntarily a couple of times, but kept silent otherwise.

John put the shirt aside and examined the bandages, finding where they'd been secured, and opening them. His hands were steady as he unwound them, but only through years of training. He normally didn't have to focus on this – he went about most days with steadiness in his hands that required no concentration – even when he was with patients – but he could feel the shakiness that wanted to jump to the surface, if given the chance.

He made himself focus on unwinding the bandages supporting Sherlock's healing ribs and then binning them properly before actually looking at all of the damage.

John wasn't sure if it was worse than what he'd imagined, or not.

He remembered what Sherlock had looked like after coming out of surgery. It was certainly better than that, since his husband had been nearly unrecognizable. But alive, he'd been alive, and that had been almost all John could focus on at the time, trying desperately to ignore how damaged Sherlock had looked, how vulnerable, how unreal.

Now he wasn't struggling to convince himself Sherlock was alive, and the image of what Sherlock normally looked like battled with the reality right now. John could remember the alabaster skin, so smooth and pale, the lines from muscles and ridges and valleys made by ribs as Sherlock would inhale and exhale, John's fingers playing across his body.

John had seen patients look worse following combat injuries, but he'd been their doctor, not their family.

The colours and extent of the bruises wasn't surprising, at least not clinically. Some were fading, already yellow or green, and some were still vivid, blue or purple, bordering on black, especially around where his ribs had been broken. There were a myriad little cuts and several larger ones sealed with small, precise stitches.

There was a wide diagonal bruise tracing Sherlock's chest and torso from the right shoulder to his left hip, and another, less consistent, across the tops of his thighs, hips, and part of his stomach. Where he'd been slammed against the seatbelt, probably more than once, if John was any judge.

He knew he was.

He closed his eyes and felt one of Sherlock's hands on his cheek, steadying him, grounding him.

Someone had done this to him, deliberately.

Jim Moriarty had done this. Laughingly, playfully, without regard for what would happen to anyone else.

It wouldn't have been so difficult to look at if it had been a simple accident, no one at fault, a truck skidding on black ice that couldn't be avoided.

But this had been engineered.

The rage he felt suddenly terrified him and he swallowed hard, searching for something to hold onto that wasn't the fear and anger. Something that wouldn't let Moriarty claim control of his life, or Sherlock's.

He was all too aware that other families had lost loved ones to Moriarty's orchestrated crash, and that he could have, too. Nearly had.

John found the balance he was looking for when Sherlock kissed him again, this time light and lingering. John kissed back without moving anything but his lips, very gently. It washed away some of the pain, some of the fear, some of the fury. Replaced it with what was supposed to be there, love and comfort.

"All right," John said softly when they'd pulled apart. "Stand up now. Trousers off. Let's get you into the tub, shall we?"


	4. Don't You Dare

"This is preposterous," Sherlock complained.

"Maybe," John agreed, having helped Sherlock shift onto the shower seat and crouching in front of him, trying to ignore that Sherlock was not wearing anything. He secured the trash bag over the cast, tucking it in around the rim just below his knee. "But no one can see you except me, unless you'd prefer I called Sandra."

Sherlock only growled in reply, which didn't help the situation of him being naked, John thought. It was quite a throaty growl.

"Besides," John continued, in part to help distract himself, "It's better than having a new cast put on, believe me. Once they give you a walking cast, you can remove it in the shower. Getting fibreglass wet is unpleasant."

"I don't see why they can't give me a walking cast to begin with, then," Sherlock said.

"Because you," John replied, squeezing his husband's better knee, "Would just walk on it."

He stepped back out of the shower and then turned on the tap, letting the water run into the bath while Sherlock propped his broken leg against the edge of the tub, to keep it away from the water. John checked the temperature, getting Sherlock to test it as well, but held off flipping the shower switch for a moment.

"Are you sure about this? It's going to hurt. You've still got a lot of sensitive bruises and cuts."

"John," Sherlock growled.

"All right, just be ready," John warned.

He turned on the shower spray and Sherlock did jump when the water hit him, giving a reflexive cry before clamping his jaw shut. John went for the tap again, but Sherlock held out a hand, moving stiffly.

"No, no," he said. "Give me a moment, I'll get used to it."

Indeed, a minute later, he began to relax, and tilted his head back slightly, as much as his stiff neck muscles would allow right now, letting the water stream over his head. _It must sting_, John thought, since he had a number of tiny healing lacerations on his scalp from where the glass in the rear windshield of the cab had shattered over him. Thankfully – miraculously really – none of them had required stitches, so they hadn't had to shave his head anywhere. They had, however, not allowed him to wash his hair until now, and John could imagine how maddening that was. Not only because he knew Sherlock was more than a bit vain about his hair, but he must be itchy as hell.

"Too hot? Too cold?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock practically purred. "Perfect."

_Ten quid he's doing that on purpose,_ John thought, as the tone of Sherlock's voice sent a shudder down his spine.

He shucked his shirt and then his jeans, kicking them off from around his ankles, his boxers joining them a moment later. Sherlock opened his eyes, ignoring the water streaming down his face, and gave John a look.

"Do you think you're going to be able to wash your own hair?" John said. "I'm not getting in fully clothed. You're not going to be able to wash properly, either, not without risking pulling some of those stitches out, or hurting your ribs."

Sherlock eyed him quite appreciatively and John tried to ignore it.

"This is unfair," Sherlock commented.

"What, because it's more fair that you be naked and I have to just settle for looking at you? I don't think so. This way, we're both in the same boat. All's fair in love and war."

John pulled off his socks and stepped into the shower, testing the heat of the water against his palm, then snagged a flannel and the soap and lathered it up. He set to washing Sherlock, wondering how nurses did this all the time with any kind of professional detachment, then remembered some of the nurses who'd given him sponge baths when he'd been recovering, but well enough to be lucid. He'd occasionally caught something behind their eyes, like laughter, but not at him. Appreciative laughter, maybe. The realization made him want to blush suddenly but he forced that down, too, because Sherlock would definitely get the wrong idea.

He kept his focus on ensuring he didn't hurt his husband, and Sherlock watched with banked desire behind his grey eyes, not saying anything. John rinsed the flannel, then wiped off the rest of the soap.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"My hair," Sherlock said by way of reply. John poured a generous amount of shampoo into his palm, lathering it onto Sherlock's scalp. He worked his fingers through the thick hair, which was more than a little in need of a good wash, taking his time, feeling slightly chilled from standing mostly outside the hot water spray, although the steam from the water was at least keeping the tiny bathroom warm.

Sherlock dropped his head back a bit, closing his eyes, letting John's fingers massage across his scalp. John watched his expression change from muted desire to utter relaxation. It was so rare to see, and he hadn't seen it at all since Sherlock had been injured. He worked his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls slowly, thoroughly, then tilted his partner's head back more, rinsing the suds out.

"Again," Sherlock said.

"Mmm-hmm," John replied, since he'd been intending to do so. Weeks of waiting required more than one shampooing. He repeated the process a second time, rinsing Sherlock's hair again, then rubbed more shampoo into his scalp. Sherlock kept his eyes closed the entire time, breathing slowly, deeply. When his head began to loll to one side, then forward, John caught him carefully, tilting his face back up.

"No, don't you dare," John said. "Wake up."

"You're the one who keeps telling me I need to sleep," Sherlock said in a drowsy voice.

"_Not_ in the shower," John snapped.

"Yes, yes, fine," Sherlock murmured, waving a hand vaguely. He kept his head tilted back, but John could see sleep creeping into his features. He wasn't falling asleep without warning so much anymore, but still sleeping a lot more than normal. Although normal for Sherlock was next to nothing anyway.

John rinsed his husband's hair again and then took the conditioner bottle from the side of the tub. He didn't use it much on his own hair, as short as it was, but Sherlock had longer hair, thick and curly to boot, and it needed more care. John massaged it in, and Sherlock's head nodded onto his chest again.

"Sherlock," John said.

"I'm awake," Sherlock muttered in protest.

"Barely," John retorted, still kneading the conditioner in, very carefully. When he was done, he tilted Sherlock's head back and rinsed his hair a final time, then reached past him to shut off the water. As he did so, Sherlock dozed off against his shoulder.

"Wake up, Sherlock," John said.

"I'm not sleeping," Sherlock answered vaguely, his voice thick with sleep.

"Yes, you are."

"I am in complete control of my mind, I assure you," he mumbled, then nuzzled his face into John's neck, letting out a sigh.

"That's good to know. Perhaps you can tell your mind to let you get out of the shower so we can get you back to bed."

"It's fine here," Sherlock murmured.

"Not hardly," John snorted. "Come on, wake up, wake up."

"All right, all right. You've no bedside manner to speak of, you know."

"Well, you aren't in bed, so no, I don't," John agreed and felt Sherlock's lips twitch against his skin. With effort, the younger man blinked himself awake, more or less fully, and John helped shift him out of the tub, back onto the toilet seat, and towelled him off carefully before removing the plastic bag from around the cast.

Quickly and expertly, after a professional lifetime of practice, he re-bandaged Sherlock's ribs, checking to make sure the bindings were holding well, and felt better once so many of the bruises were covered again.

"Come on, let's get you dressed again, then back to bed."

"No, not those," Sherlock replied, pushing John's hand away vaguely when John started to put his pyjama top back on. "I want real clothing, John."

"Sherlock, you're half asleep."

"I can sleep in real clothing. I'm tired of pyjamas."

For a moment, John considered arguing, then rolled his eyes.

"Fine. If you can stay awake long enough for me to dress and get them, you have a deal."

Sherlock nodded and John dried himself off quickly and dressed, leaving Sherlock half nodding off in the bathroom, and hurrying back into the hospital room. He selected some clothes he'd brought back with him – Sherlock hadn't dressed yet in something that wasn't pyjamas, so John was heartened by the choice.

"Jeans?" Sherlock said. "I don't want jeans. I want proper trousers."

"Your proper trousers won't fit over that cast," John said. "That's why I brought these. Want to argue? Because if you do, it's pyjamas again."

Sherlock gave him a look with no real bite to it and let John dress him. John paired the dark blue jeans with a black long-sleeved shirt that he buttoned up quickly, leaving the top two buttons undone.

"Better?" he asked.

"Much," Sherlock agreed.

"Good," John said, then pressed the crutches into Sherlock's hands. "Put those on, and let's go."


	5. Half Cracking

Sandra came back in just as John was helping a half asleep Sherlock into bed, his hair damp, hanging in looser curls around his face due to the weight of the water still caught up in them. John ran one of those curls between his thumb and forefinger, hearing the squeak of clean hair, and Sherlock managed a tired smile.

"Well, don't you look cracking?" Sandra asked, crossing her arms over her blue nurse's scrubs and eyeing Sherlock appreciatively. John gave her a smile; he was certain Sherlock had no real idea how many of the female nurses were evaluating him approvingly when they came to check on him.

Sherlock groaned, shifting himself in the hospital bed, looking incongruous in his regular clothing against the crisp white sheets and the pale yellow blankets.

"Half cracking at best," he said, shaking his head. "Still have these bruises and the IV line and the bloody cast."

"Well you're a far sight better looking than you were an hour ago," Sandra said. "Let me hook that IV line back in. Do I need to get you any anti-nauseants?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock assured her. "And I saw you give John that questioning look. I am fine."

"Your husband _is_ a doctor," Sandra pointed out.

"But, as he enjoys reminding me, not my doctor."

"True enough," she replied, and got him hooked back up to his IV drip while John settled the banks over him. Sherlock closed his eyes, and John smoothed a hand through his clean hair, noting the small, tired smile that tugged at his lips.

"I'm going to do another pulse and BP, so I can leave you sleep most of the night," Sandra said. She took his vitals quickly and John watched, noting the pleased but professional expression on her face. Presumably, Sherlock's heart rate had slowed – he was glad Sandra had not been able to take Sherlock's pulse early, following their snogging. She might have been alarmed, but she probably would have just snickered at them knowingly.

"Everything looks good," she said. "How do you feel?"

"Brilliant," Sherlock murmured.

"Good. I have some good news for both of you."

At this, Sherlock opened one eye, evaluating her curiously. John perched on the edge of the bed – he had spent one or two nights at home recently, but would probably stay on this night. Sleeping in the flat, and in the bed, by himself felt too strange, and it wasn't as though he were back at work yet, so it didn't so much matter if he didn't get a full night's sleep. The nights here were routinely interrupted by the nurses, and the occasional doctor making his or her rounds, but John slept better next to Sherlock, and Sherlock had always slept better next to him.

"They're springing you, the day after tomorrow. In the morning. Just got the word from Doctor Merith."

At this, Sherlock came more awake again, opening his other eye, looking suddenly pleased. John felt a wave of relief, followed by a flood of questions – what would he have to do at the flat to make it temporarily liveable for someone on crutches, what did he need to buy before Sherlock got home, what prescriptions would he have to fill, where would the outpatient physiotherapy be, and how would Sherlock get there? Then he felt a flash of desire when one of Sherlock's hands found his, their fingers lacing together, Sherlock's thumb rubbing over John's palm.

He found suddenly the questions didn't matter. There would be other, more pressing things to deal with.

"Thank you, Sandra," John said.

"Good night, boys," Sandra replied. "Get some sleep."

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes again, drifting off vaguely, and John watched the nurse go, shutting the light off as she went, the door clicking shut softly behind her.

"You must remember to ring Mrs. Turner tomorrow morning," Sherlock murmured after Sandra's footsteps had faded away down the corridor.

"Mrs. Turner?" John asked. "Mrs. Hudson's friend? What for?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, pale grey but bright despite the low lighting, which illuminated the room dimly from beyond the privacy curtain that separated them from the hallway and around the edges of the drapes covering the window that looked out over London. The expression on his face spoke volumes and John's pulse picked up again.

He felt another sharp stab of desire and wove his free hand into Sherlock's damp curls, seeing the brightness in Sherlock's eyes increase, gleaming in a way that had little to do with fatigue.

"Have her get Mrs. Hudson over that whole day for a tea and a chat. I'll not have us being interrupted and I will not," he murmured, pulling John down for a light kiss, "have you trying to be quiet."

(**End**)


End file.
